UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


y* 

A  DOME  OF 
MANY-COLOURED  GLASS 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  -    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


A  DOME 

OF 

MANY-COLOUKED  GLASS 


BY 

AMY  LOWELL 


gorft 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1915 

All  rights  reserved 

*g    1  8 


COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  AMY  LOWELL 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  October  iqi2 
Reprinted  March  IQIS 


"  Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity" 

Shelley,  "ADONAIS." 

'Le  silence  est  si  grand  que  mon  coeur  enfrissonne, 
Seid,  le  bruit  de  mes  pas  sur  le  pav6  resonne" 

Albert  Samain. 


CONTENTS 

LYRICAL  POEMS 

BEFORE  THE  ALTAR    .        .        .        .        .        .        .  3 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  COVER  OP  A  VOLUME  OP  KEATS'S 

POEMS 7 

APPLES  OF  HESPERIDES 9 

AZURE  AND  GOLD 11 

PETALS 13 

VENETIAN  GLASS 15 

FATIGUE 16 

A  JAPANESE  WOOD-CARVING 18  »• 

A  LITTLE  SONG 21 

BEHIND  A  WALL 23 

A  WINTER  RIDE 25 

A  COLOURED  PRINT  BY  SHOKEI          .        .        .  26  f 

SONG    .  28 


Vlll  CONTENTS 

THE  FOOL  ERRANT 81 

THE  GREEN  BOWL 37 

HORA  STELLATRIX 38 

FRAGMENT 39 

LOON  POINT 40 

SUMMER 43 

" TO-MORROW  TO  FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW"  46 

THE  WAT 47 

_Ai*A_ 50 

ROADS 53 

TEATRO  BAMBINO.     DUBLIN,  N.  H 56 

THE  ROAD  TO  AVIGNON 59 

NEW  YORK  AT  NIGHT 63 

.,      A  FAIRY  TALE 66 

CROWNED -     .  69 

To  ELIZABETH  WARD  PERKINS 70 

THE  PROMISE  OP  THE  MORNING  STAB       ...  73 

J — K.  HUTSMANS 75 

MARCH  EVENING 78 


CONTENTS  IX 

SONNETS 

LEISURE 83 

ON  CARPACCIO'S  PICTURE:  THE  DREAM  OP  ST.  URSULA  84 

THE  MATRIX 85 

MONADNOCK  IN  EARLY  SPRING          ....  86 

THE  LITTLE  GARDEN          ......  87 

To  AN  EARLY  DAFFODIL 88 

LISTENING 89 

THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE 90 

HERO-WORSHIP 91 

IN  DARKNESS 92 

BEFORE  DAWN 93 

THE  POET 94 

AT  NIGHT 95 

THE  FRUIT  GARDEN  PATH 96 

MIRAGE .97 

To  A  FRIEND 98 

A  FIXED  IDEA 99 


X  CONTENTS 

DREAMS 100 

FRANKINCENSE  AND  MYRRH 101 

FROM  ONE  WHO  STATS 102 

CREPUSCULE  DU  MATIN 103 

AFTERMATH 104 

THE  END 105 

THE  STARLING 106 

MARKET  DAT 107 

EPITAPH  IN  A  CHURCH- YARD  IN  CHARLESTON,  SOUTH 

CAROLINA 108 

FRANCIS  II,  KING  OF  NAPLES 110 

To  JOHN  KEATS Ill 

THE  BOSTON  ATHENAEUM 

THE  BOSTON  ATHENAEUM 115 

VERSES  FOR   CHILDREN 

SEA  SHELL 125 

FRINGED  GENTIANS 126 

THE  PAINTED  CEILING        ....  128 


CONTENTS  XI 

THE  CRESCENT  MOON 130 

CLIMBING 132 

THE  TROUT 134 

WIND 136 

THE  PLEIADES  138 


Thanks  are  due  to  the  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  and  to  Messrs. 
G.  Schinner,  Inc.,  for  their  courteous  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these 
poems  which  have  been  copyrighted  by  them. 


LYRICAL  POEMS 


•\ 


BEFORE  THE  ALTAR 

BEFORE  the  Altar,  bowed,  he  stands 

With  empty  hands; 

Upon  it  perfumed  offerings  burn 

Wreathing  with  smoke  the  sacrificial  urn. 

Not  one  of  all  these  has  he  given, 

No  flame  of  his  has  leapt  to  Heaven 

Firesouled,  vermilion-hearted, 

Forked,  and  darted, 

Consuming  what  a  few  spare  pence 

Have  cheaply  bought,  to  fling  from  hence 

In  idly -asked  petition. 

His  sole  condition 
Love  and  poverty. 
And  while  the  moon 


4 

Athwart  a  waving  pine  tree, 
And  soon 

Tips  all  the  needles  there 
With  silver  sparkles,  bitterly 
He  gazes,  while  his  soul 
Grows  hard  with  thinking  of  the  poorness 
of  his  dole. 

"Shining  and  distant  Goddess,  hear  my 

prayer 

Where  you  swim  in  the  high  air! 
With  charity  look  down  on  me, 
Under  this  tree, 

Tending  the  gifts  I  have  not  brought, 
The  rare  and  goodly  things 
I  have  not  sought. 
Instead,  take  from  me  all  my  life! 


LYRICAL   POEMS 

"Upon  the  wings 
Of  shimmering  moonbeams 
I  pack  my  poet's  dreams 
For  you. 

My  wearying  strife, 
My  courage,  my  loss, 
Into  the  night  I  toss 
For  you. 
Golden  Divinity, 
Deign  to  look  down  on  me 
Who  so  unworthily 
Offers  to  you : 
All  life  has  known, 
Seeds  withered  unsown, 
Hopes  turning  quick  to  fears, 
Laughter  which  dies  in  tears. 
The  shredded  remnant  of  a  man 


LYRICAL   POEMS 

Is  all  the  span 

And  compass  of  my  offering  to  you. 

"Empty  and  silent,  I 
Kneel  before  your  pure,  calm  majesty. 
On  this  stone,  in  this  urn 
I  pour  my  heart  and  watch  it  burn, 
Myself  the  sacrifice;  but  be 
Still  unmoved:  Divinity." 

From  the  altar,  bathed  in  moonlight, 
The  smoke  rose  straight  in  the  quiet  night. 


LYRICAL  POEMS 


SUGGESTED  BY  THE  COVER  OF  A 
VOLUME  OF  KEATS'S  POEMS 

WILD  little  bird,  who  chose  thee  for  a  sign 

To  put  upon  the  cover  of  this  book? 

Who  heard  thee  singing  in  the  distance  dim, 

The  vague,  far  greenness  of  the  enshrouding  wood, 

When  the  damp  freshness  of  the  morning  earth 

Was  full  of  pungent  sweetness  and  thy  song? 

Who  followed  over  moss  and  twisted  roots, 
And  pushed  through  the  wet  leaves  of  trailing  vines 
Where  slanting  sunbeams  gleamed  uncertainly, 
While  ever  clearer  came  the  dropping  notes, 
Until,  at  last,  two  widening  trunks  disclosed 
Thee  singing  on  a  spray  of  branching  beech, 
Hidden,  then  seen;  and  always  that  same  song 


8  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Of  joyful  sweetness,  rapture  incarnate, 

Filled  the  hushed,  rustling  stillness  of  the  wood? 

We  do  not  know  what  bird  thou  art.   Perhaps 
That  fairy  bird,  fabled  in  island  tale, 
Who  never  sings  but  once,  and  then  his  song 
Is  of  such  fearful  beauty  that  he  dies 
From  sheer  exuberance  of  melody.  " 

For  this  they  took  thee,  little  bird,  for  this 
They  captured  thee,  tilting  among  the  leaves, 
And  stamped  thee  for  a  symbol  on  this  book. 
For  it  contains  a  song  surpassing  thine, 
Richer,  more  sweet,  more  poignant.  And  the  poet 
Who  felt  this  burning  beauty,  and  whose  heart 
Was  full  of  loveliest  things,  sang  all  he  knew 
A  little  while,  and  then  he  died;  too  frail 
To  bear  this  untamed,  passionate  burst  of  song. 


LYRICAL    POEMS 


APPLES  OF  HESPERIDES 

GLINTING  golden  through  the  trees, 

Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Through  the  moon-pierced  warp  of  night 
Shoot  pale  shafts  of  yellow  light, 
Swaying  to  the  kissing  breeze 
Swings  the  treasure,  golden-gleaming, 

Apples  of  Hesperides! 

Far  and  lofty  yet  they  glimmer, 

Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Blinded  by  their  radiant  shimmer, 
Pushing  forward  just  for  these; 
Dew-besprinkled,  bramble-marred, 
Poor  duped  mortal,  travel-scarred, 


10  LYKICAL   POEMS 

Always  thinking  soon  to  seize 
And  possess  the  golden-glistening 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 

Orbed,  and  glittering,  and  pendent, 

Apples  of  Hesperides! 
Not  one  missing,  still  transcendent, 
Clustering  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 
Yielding  to  no  man's  desire, 
Glowing  with  a  saffron  fire, 
Splendid,  unassailed,  the  golden 
Apples  of  Hesperides! 


LYRICAL   POEMS  11 


AZURE  AND  GOLD 

APRIL  had  covered  the  hills 

With  flickering  yellows  and  reds, 

The  sparkle  and  coolness  of  snow 
Was  blown  from  the  mountain  beds. 

Across  a  deep-sunken  stream 
The  pink  of  blossoming  trees, 

And  from  windless  appleblooms 
The  humming  of  many  bees. 

The  air  was  of  rose  and  gold 
Arabesqued  with  the  song  of  birds 

Who,  swinging  unseen  under  leaves, 
Made  music  more  eager  than  words. 


12  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Of  a  sudden,  aslant  the  road, 
A  brightness  to  dazzle  and  stun, 

A  glint  of  the  bluest  blue, 
A  flash  from  a  sapphire  sun. 

Blue-birds  so  blue,  't  was  a  dream, 
An  impossible,  unconceived  hue, 

The  high  sky  of  summer  dropped  down 
Some  rapturous  ocean  to  woo. 

Such  a  colour,  such  infinite  light! 

The  heart  of  a  fabulous  gem, 
Many -faceted,  brilliant  and  rare. 

Centre  Stone  of  the  earth's  diadem! 

Centre  Stone  of  the  Crown  of  the  World, 
"Sincerity"  graved  on  your  youth! 
And  your  eyes  hold  the  blue-bird  flash, 
The  sapphire  shaft,  which  is  truth. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  13 


PETALS 

LIFE  is  a  stream 

On  which  we  strew 

Petal  by  petal  the  flower  of  our  heart; 

The  end  lost  in  dream, 

They  float  past  our  view, 

We  only  watch  their  glad,  early  start. 

Freighted  with  hope, 
Crimsoned  with  joy, 
We  scatter  the  leaves  of  our  opening 

rose; 

Their  widening  scope, 
Their  distant  employ, 
We  never  shall  know.  And  the  stream 

as  it  flows 


14  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Sweeps  them  away, 
Each  one  is  gone 
Ever  beyond  into  infinite  ways. 
We  alone  stay 
While  years  hurry  on, 
The  flower  fared  forth,  though  its  fragrance 
still  stays. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  15 

VENETIAN  GLASS 

As  one  who  sails  upon  a  wide,  blue  sea 

Far  out  of  sight  of  land,  his  mind  intent 

Upon  the  sailing  of  his  little  boat, 

On  tightening  ropes  and  shaping  fair  his  course, 

Hears  suddenly,  across  the  restless  sea, 

The  rhythmic  striking  of  some  towered  clock, 

And  wakes  from  thoughtless  idleness  to  time: 

Time,  the  slow  pulse  which  beats  eternity! 

So  through  the  vacancy  of  busy  life 

At  intervals  you  cross  my  path  and  bring 

The  deep  solemnity  of  passing  years. 

For  you  I  have  shed  bitter  tears,  for  you 

I  have  relinquished  that  for  which  my  heart 

Cried  out  in  selfish  longing.  And  to-night 

Having  just  left  you,  I  can  say:  "'T  is  well. 

Thank  God  that  I  have  known  a  soul  so  true, 

So  nobly  just,  so  worthy  to  be  loved!" 


16  LYRICAL   POEMS 

FATIGUE 

STUPEFY  my  heart  to  every  day's  monotony, 
Seal  up  my  eyes,  I  would  not  look  so  far, 

Chasten  my  steps  to  peaceful  regularity, 
Bow  down  my  head  lest  I  behold  a  star. 

Fill  my  days  with  work,  a  thousand  calm  necessities 
Leaving  no  moment  to  consecrate  to  hope, 

Girdle  my  thoughts  within  the  dull  circumferences 
Of  facts  which  form  the  actual  in  one  short  hour's 
scope. 

Give  me  dreamless  sleep,  and  loose  night's  power  over 
me, 

Shut  my  ears  to  sounds  only  tumultuous  then,  . 
Bid  Fancy  slumber,  and  steal  away  its  potency, 

Or  Nature  wakes  and  strives  to  live  again. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  17 

Let  each  day  pass,  well  ordered  in  its  usefulness, 
Unlit  by  sunshine,  unscarred  by  storm; 

Dower  me  with  strength  and  curb  all  foolish  eager 
ness  — 
The  law  exacts  obedience.  Instruct,  I  will  conform. 


18  LYRICAL   POEMS 


A  JAPANESE  WOOD-CARVING 

HIGH  up  above  the  open,  welcoming  door 

It  hangs,  a  piece  of  wood  with  colours  dim. 

Once,  long  ago,  it  was  a  waving  tree 

And  knew  the  sun  and  shadow  through  the  leaves 

Of  forest  trees,  in  a  thick  eastern  wood. 

The  winter  snows  had  bent  its  branches  down, 

The  spring  had  swelled  its  buds  with  coming  flowers, 

Summer  had  run  like  fire  through  its  veins, 

While  autumn  pelted  it  with  chestnut  burrs, 

And  strewed  the  leafy  ground  with  acorn  cups. 

Dark  midnight  storms  had  roared  and  crashed  among 

Its  branches,  breaking  here  and  there  a  limb; 

But  every  now  and  then  broad  sunlit  days 

Lovingly  lingered,  caught  among  the  leaves. 

Yes,  it  had  known  all  this,  and  yet  to  us 


LYRICAL    POEMS  19 

It  does  not  speak  of  mossy  forest  ways, 

Of  whispering  pine  trees  or  the  shimmering  birch; 

But  of  quick  winds,  and  the  salt,  stinging  sea! 

An  artist  once,  with  patient,  careful  knife, 

Had  fashioned  it  like  to  the  untamed  sea. 

Here  waves  uprear  themselves,  their  tops  blown  back 

By  the  gay,  sunny  wind,  which  whips  the  blue 

And  breaks  it  into  gleams  and  sparks  of  light. 

Among  the  flashing  waves  are  two  white  birds 

Which  swoop,  and  soar,  and  scream  for  very  joy 

At  the  wild  sport.  Now  diving  quickly  in, 

Questing  some  glistening  fish.   Now  flying  up, 

Their  dripping  feathers  shining  in  the  sun, 

While  the  wet  drops  like  little  glints  of  light, 

Fall  pattering  backward  to  the  parent  sea. 

Gliding  along  the  green  and  foam-flecked  hollows, 

Or  skimming  some  white  crest  about  to  break, 

The  spirits  of  the  sky  deigning  to  stoop 

And  play  with  ocean  in  a  summer  mood. 


20  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Hanging  above  the  high,  wide  open  door, 
It  brings  to  us  in  quiet,  firelit  room, 
The  freedom  of  the  earth's  vast  solitudes, 
Where  heaping,  sunny  waves  tumble  and  roll, 
And  seabirds  scream  in  wanton  happiness. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  21 


A  LITTLE  SONG 

WHEN  you,  my  Dear,  are  away,  away, 
How  wearily  goes  the  creeping  day. 
A  year  drags  after  morning,  and  night 
Starts  another  year  of  candle  light. 
O  Pausing  Sun  and  Lingering  Moon! 
Grant  me,  I  beg  of  you,  this  boon. 

Whirl  round  the  earth  as  never  sun 

Has  his  diurnal  journey  run. 

And,  Moon,  slip  past  the  ladders  of  air 

In  a  single  flash,  while  your  streaming  hair 

Catches  the  stars  and  pulls  them  down 

To  shine  on  some  slumbering  Chinese  town. 

O  Kindly  Sun !  Understanding  Moon ! 

Bring  evening  to  crowd  the  footsteps  of  noon. 


22  LYRICAL  POEMS 

But  when  that  long  awaited  day 

Hangs  ripe  in  the  heavens,  your  voyaging  stay. 

Be  morning,  O  Sun!  with  the  lark  in  song, 

Be  afternoon  for  ages  long. 

And,  Moon,  let  you  and  your  lesser  lights 

Watch  over  a  century  of  nights. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  23 


BEHIND  A  WALL 

I  OWN  a  solace  shut  within  my  heart, 
A  garden  full  of  many  a  quaint  delight 
And  warm  with  drowsy,  poppied  sunshine;  bright, 
Flaming  with  lilies  out  of  whose  cups  dart 
Shining  things 
With  powdered  wings. 

Here  terrace  sinks  to  terrace,  arbors  close 
The  ends  of  dreaming  paths;  a  wanton  wind 
Jostles  the  half-ripe  pears,  and  then,  unkind, 
Tumbles  a-slumber  in  a  pillar  rose, 
With  content 
Grown  indolent. 


24  LYRICAL   POEMS 

By  night  my  garden  is  o'erhung  with  gems 
Fixed  in  an  onyx  setting.   Fireflies 
Flicker  their  lanterns  in  my  dazzled  eyes. 
In  serried  rows  I  guess  the  straight,  stiff  stems 
Of  hollyhocks 
Against  the  rocks. 

So  far  and  still  it  is  that,  listening, 
I  hear  the  flowers  talking  in  the  dawn; 
And  where  a  sunken  basin  cuts  the  lawn, 
Cinctured  with  iris,  pale  and  glistening, 
The  sudden  swish 
Of  a  waking  fish. 


LYRICAL  POEMS  25 


A  WINTER  RIDE 

WHO  shall  declare  the  joy  of  the  running! 

Who  shall  tell  of  the  pleasures  of  flight! 
Springing  and  spurning  the  tufts  of  wild  heather, 

Sweeping,  wide-winged,  through  the  blue  dome  of 

light. 
Everything  mortal  has  moments  immortal, 

Swift  and  God-gifted,  immeasurably  bright. 

So  with  the  stretch  of  the  white  road  before  me, 
Shining  snowcrystals  rainbowed  by  the  sun, 

Fields  that  are  white,  stained  with  long,  cool,  blue 

shadows, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  my  horse  as  we  run. 

Joy  in  the  touch  of  the  wind  and  the  sunlight! 
Joy!  With  the  vigorous  earth  I  am  one. 


26  LYRICAL   POEMS 


A  COLOURED  PRINT  BY  SHOKEI 

IT  winds  along  the  face  of  a  cliff 
This  path  which  I  long  to  explore, 

And  over  it  dashes  a  waterfall, 
And  the  air  is  full  of  the  roar 

And  the  thunderous  voice  of  waters  which  sweep 

In  a  silver  torrent  over  some  steep. 

It  clears  the  path  with  a  mighty  bound 

And  tumbles  below  and  away, 
And  the  trees  and  the  bushes  which  grow  in  the 
rocks 

Are  wet  with  its  jewelled  spray; 
The  air  is  misty  and  heavy  with  sound, 
And  small,  wet  wildflowers  star  the  ground. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  27 

Oh!  The  dampness  is  very  good  to  smell, 

And  the  path  is  soft  to  tread, 
And  beyond  the  fall  it  winds  up  and  on, 

While  little  streamlets  thread 
Their  own  meandering  way  down  the  hill 
Each  singing  its  own  little  song,  until 

I  forget  that  't  is  only  a  pictured  path, 

And  I  hear  the  water  and  wind, 
And  look  through  the  mist,  and  strain  my  eyea 

To  see  what  there  is  behind; 
For  it  must  lead  to  a  happy  land, 
This  little  path  by  a  waterfall  spanned. 


28  LYRICAL   POEMS 

SONG 

OH!  To  be  a  flower 

Nodding  in  the  sun, 
Bending,  then  upspringing 

As  the  breezes  run; 
Holding  up 
A  scent-brimmed  cup, 

Full  of  summer's  fragrance  to  the  summer 
sun. 

Oh!  To  be  a  butterfly 
Still,  upon  a  flower, 
Winking  with  its  painted  wings, 

Happy  in  the  hour. 
Blossoms  hold 
Mines  of  gold 

Deep  within  the  farthest  heart  of  each 
chaliced  flower. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  29 

Oh!  To  be  a  cloud 

Blowing  through  the  blue, 
Shadowing  the  mountains, 

Rushing  loudly  through 
Valleys  deep 
Where  torrents  keep 

Always  their  plunging  thunder  and  their  misty 
arch  of  blue. 


Oh!  To  be  a  wave 

Splintering  on  the  sand, 
Drawing  back,  but  leaving 

Lingeringly  the  land. 
Rainbow  light 
Flashes  bright 

Telling  tales  of  coral  caves  half  hid  in  yellow 
sand. 


30  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Soon  they  die,  the  flowers; 

Insects  live  a  day; 
Clouds  dissolve  in  showers; 

Only  waves  at  play 
Last  forever. 
Shall  endeavor 

Make  a  sea  of  purpose  mightier  than  we 
dream  to-day? 


LYBICAL  POEMS  31 


THE  FOOL  ERRANT 

THE  Fool  Errant  sat  by  the  highway  of  life 

And  his  gaze  wandered  up  and  his  gaze  wandered 
down, 

A  vigorous  youth,  but  with  no  wish  to  walk, 
Yet  his  longing  was  great  for  the  distant  town. 

He  whistled  a  little  frivolous  tune 

Which  he  felt  to  be  pulsing  with  ecstasy, 

For  he  thought  that  success  always  followed  desire, 
Such  a  very  superlative  fool  was  he. 

A  maiden  came  by  on  an  ambling  mule, 

Her  gown  was  rose-red  and  her  kerchief  blue, 

On  her  lap  she  carried  a  basket  of  eggs. 
Thought  the  fool,  "There  is  certainly  room  for  two." 


32  LYHICAL   POEMS 

So  he  jauntily  swaggered  towards  the  maid 
And  put  out  his  hand  to  the  bridle-rein. 
"My  pretty  girl,"  quoth  the  fool,  "take  me  up, 
For  to  ride  with  you  to  the  town  I  am  fain." 

But  the  maiden  struck  at  his  upraised  arm 
And  pelted  him  hotly  with  eggs,  a  score. 

The  mule,  lashed  into  a  fury,  ran; 

The  fool  went  back  to  his  stone  and  swore. 

Then  out  of  the  cloud  of  settling  dust 
The  burly  form  of  an  abbot  appeared, 

Reading  his  office  he  rode  to  the  town. 

And  the  fool  got  up,  for  his  heart  was  cheered. 

He  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  long,  white  road 

And  swept  off  his  cap  till  it  touched  the  ground. 
"Ah,  Reverent  Sir,  well  met,"  said  the  fool, 
"A  worthier  transport  never  was  found. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  33 

"I  pray  you  allow  me  to  mount  with  you, 

Your  palfrey  seems  both  sturdy  and  young." 
The  abbot  looked  up  from  the  holy  book 
And  cried  out  in  anger,  "Hold  your  tongue! 

"  How  dare  you  obstruct  the  King's  highroad, 

You  saucy  varlet,  get  out  of  my  way." 
Then  he  gave  the  fool  a  cut  with  his  whip 
And  leaving  him  smarting,  he  rode  away. 

The  fool  was  angry,  the  fool  was  sore, 

And  he  cursed  the  folly  of  monks  and  maids. 
"If  I  could  but  meet  with  a  man,"  sighed  the  fool, 
"For  a  woman  fears,  and  a  friar  upbraids." 

Then  he  saw  a  flashing  of  distant  steel 

And  the  clanking  of  harness  greeted  his  ears, 

And  up  the  road  journeyed  knights-at-arms, 
With  waving  plumes  and  glittering  spears. 


34  LYRICAL  POEMS 

The  fool  took  notice  and  slowly  arose, 
Not  quite  so  sure  was  his  foolish  heart. 

If  priests  and  women  would  none  of  him 
Was  it  likely  a  knight  would  take  his  part? 

They  sang  as  they  rode,  these  lusty  boys, 

When  one  chanced  to  turn  toward  the  highway's 

side, 
"There's  a  sorry  figure  of  fun,"  jested  he, 

"Well,  Sirrah!  move  back,  there  is  scarce  room  to 
ride." 

"Good  Sirs,  Kind  Sirs,"  begged  the  crestfallen  fool, 
"I  pray  of  your  courtesy  speech  with  you, 
I'm  for  yonder  town,  and  have  no  horse  to  ride, 
Have  you  never  a  charger  will  carry  two?" 


LYRICAL   POEMS  35 

Then  the  company  halted  and  laughed  out  loud. 

"Was  such  a  request  ever  made  to  a  knight?" 

'And  where  are  your  legs,"  asked  one,  "if  you 

start, 
You  may  be  inside  the  town  gates  to-night." 

"  'T  is  a  lazy  fellow,  let  him  alone, 

They've  no  room  in  the  town  for  such  idlers  as 

he." 

But  one  bent  from  his  saddle  and  said,  "My  man, 
Art  thou  not  ashamed  to  beg  charity! 

'Thou  art  well  set  up,  and  thy  legs  are  strong, 

But  it  much  misgives  me  lest  thou  'rt  a  fool ; 
For  beggars  get  only  a  beggar's  crust, 

Wise  men  are  reared  in  a  different  school." 


36  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Then  they  clattered  away  in  the  dust  and  the  wind, 
And  the  fool  slunk  back  to  his  lonely  stone; 

He  began  to  see  that  the  man  who  asks 
Must  likewise  give  and  not  ask  alone. 

Purple  tree-shadows  crept  over  the  road, 
The  level  sun  flung  an  orange  light, 

And  the  fool  laid  his  head  on  the  hard,  gray  stone 
And  wept  as  he  realized  advancing  night. 

A  great,  round  moon  rose  over  a  hill 

And  the  steady  wind  blew  yet  more  cool; 

And  crouched  on  a  stone  a  wayfarer  sobbed, 

• 

For  at  last  he  knew  he  was  only  a  fool. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  87 

THE  GREEN  BOWL 

THIS  little  bowl  is  like  a  mossy  pool 

In  a  Spring  wood,  where  dogtooth  violets  grow 

Nodding  in  chequered  sunshine  of  the  trees; 

A  quiet  place,  still,  with  the  sound  of  birds, 

Where,  though  unseen,  is  heard  the  endless  song 

And  murmur  of  the  never  resting  sea. 

'T  was  winter,  Roger,  when  you  made  this  cup, 

But  coming  Spring  guided  your  eager  hand 

And  round  the  edge  you  fashioned  young  green  leaves, 

A  proper  chalice  made  to  hold  the  shy 

And  little  flowers  of  the  woods.  And  here 

They  will  forget  their  sad  uprooting,  lost 

In  pleasure  that  this  circle  of  bright  leaves 

Should  be  their  setting;  once  more  they  will  dream 

They  hear  winds  wandering  through  lofty  trees 

And  see  the  sun  smiling  between  the  leaves. 


38  LYRICAL   POEMS 

HORA  STELLATRIX 

THE  stars  hang  thick  in  the  apple  tree, 
The  south  wind  smells  of  the  pungent  sea, 
Gold  tulip  cups  are  heavy  with  dew. 
The  night's  for  you,  Sweetheart,  for  you! 
Starfire  rains  from  the  vaulted  blue. 

Listen!  The  dancing  of  unseen  leaves. 

A  drowsy  swallow  stirs  in  the  eaves. 

Only  a  maiden  is  sorrowing. 

'T  is  night  and  spring,  Sweetheart,  and  spring! 

Starfire  lights  your  heart's  blossoming. 

In  the  intimate  dark  there's  never  an  ear, 
Though  the  tulips  stand  on  tiptoe  to  hear, 
So  give;  ripe  fruit  must  shrivel  or  fall. 
As  you  are  mine,  Sweetheart,  give  all ! 
Starfire  sparkles,  your  coronal. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  39 


FRAGMENT 

WHAT  is  poetry?  Is  it  a  mosaic 

Of  coloured  stones  which  curiously  are  wrought 
Into  a  pattern?  Rather  glass  that's  taught 

By  patient  labor  any  hue  to  take 

And  glowing  with  a  sumptuous  splendor,  make 
Beauty  a  thing  of  awe;  where  sunbeams  caught, 
Transmuted  fall  in  sheafs  of  rainbows  fraught 

With  storied  meaning  for  religion's  sake. 


40  LYRICAL   POEMS 


LOON  POINT 

SOFTLY  the  water  ripples 

Against  the  canoe's  curving  side, 
Softly  the  birch  trees  rustle 

Flinging  over  us  branches  wide. 

Softly  the  moon  glints  and  glistens 
As  the  water  takes  and  leaves, 

Like  golden  ears  of  corn 
Which  fall  from  loose-bound  sheaves, 

Or  like  the  snow-white  petals 

Which  drop  from  an  overblown  rose, 

When  Summer  ripens  to  Autumn 
And  the  freighted  year  must  close. 


LYRICAL    POEMS  41 

From  the  shore  come  the  scents  of  a  garden, 

And  between  a  gap  in  the  trees 
A  proud,  white  statue  glimmers 

In  cold,  disdainful  ease. 

The  child  of  a  southern  people, 

The  thought  of  an  alien  race, 
What  does  she  in  this  pale,  northern  garden, 

How  reconcile  it  with  her  grace? 

But  the  moon  in  her  wayward  beauty 

Is  ever  and  always  the  same, 
As  lovely  as  when  upon  Latmos 

She  watched  till  Endymion  came. 

Through  the  water  the  moon  writes  her  legends 

In  light,  on  the  smooth,  wet  sand; 
They  endure  for  a  moment,  and  vanish, 

And  no  one  may  understand. 


42  LYRICAL   POEMS 

All  round  us  the  secret  of  Nature 

Is  telling  itself  to  our  sight, 
We  may  guess  at  her  meaning  but  never 

Can  know  the  full  mystery  of  night. 

But  her  power  of  enchantment  is  on  us, 
We  bow  to  the  spell  which  she  weaves, 

Made  up  of  the  murmur  of  waves 
And  the  manifold  whisper  of  leaves. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  43 


SUMMER 

SOME  men  there  are  who  find  in  nature  all 
Their  inspiration,  hers  the  sympathy 
Which  spurs  them  on  to  any  great  endeavor, 
To  them  the  fields  and  woods  are  closest  friends, 
And  they  hold  dear  communion  with  the  hills; 
The  voice  of  waters  soothes  them  with  its  fall, 
And  the  great  winds  bring  healing  in  their  sound. 
To  them  a  city  is  a  prison  house 
Where  pent  up  human  forces  labour  and  strive, 
Where  beauty  dwells  not,  driven  forth  by  man; 
But  where  in  winter  they  must  live  until 
Summer  gives  back  the  spaces  of  the  hills. 

To  me  it  is  not  so.  I  love  the  earth 
^\ 

And  all  the  gifts  of  her  so  lavish  hand : 
Sunshine  and  flowers,  rivers  and  rushing  winds, 


44  LYKICAL   POEMS 

Thick  branches  swaying  in  a  winter  storm, 

And  moonlight  playing  in  a  boat's  wide  wake; 

But  more  than  these,  and  much,  ah,  how  much  more, 

I  love  the  very  human  heart  of  man. 

Above  me  spreads  the  hot,  blue  mid-day  sky, 

Far  down  the  hillside  lies  the  sleeping  lake 

Lazily  reflecting  back  the  sun, 

And  scarcely  ruffled  by  the  little  breeze 

Which  wanders  idly  through  the  nodding  ferns. 

The  blue  crest  of  the  distant  mountain,  tops 

The  green  crest  of  the  hill  on  which  I  sit; 

And  it  is  summer,  glorious,  deep-toned  summer, 

The  very  crown  of  nature's  changing  year 

When  all  her  surging  life  is  at  its  full. 

To  me  alone  it  is  a  time  of  pause, 

A  void  and  silent  space  between  two  worlds, 

When  inspiration  lags,  and  feeling  sleeps, 

Gathering  strength  for  efforts  yet  to  come. 

For  life  alone  is  creator  of  life, 


LYRICAL   POEMS  45 

And  closest  contact  with  the  human  world 

Is  like  a  lantern  shining  in  the  night 

To  light  me  to  a  knowledge  of  myself. 

I  love  the  vivid  life  of  winter  months 

In  constant  intercourse  with  human  minds, 

When  every  new  experience  is  gain 

And  on  all  sides  we  feel  the  great  world's  heart; 

The  pulse  and  throb  of  life  which  makes  us  men! 


' 

46  LYRICAL    POEMS 


"TO-MORROW  TO  FRESH  WOODS 
AND  PASTURES  NEW" 

As  for  a  moment  he  stands,  in  hardy  masculine  beauty, 

Poised  on  the  fircrested  rock,  over  the  pool  which  be 
low  him 

Gleams  in  the  wavering  sunlight,  waiting  the  shock  of 
his  plunging. 

So  for  a  moment  I  stand,  my  feet  planted  firm  in  the 
present, 

Eagerly  scanning  the  future  which  is  so  soon  to  possess 
me. 


47 


THE  WAY 

AT  first  a  mere  thread  of  a  footpath,  half  blotted  out  by 
the  grasses 

Sweeping  triumphant  across  it,  it  wound  between 
hedges  of  roses 

Whose  blossoms  were  poised  above  leaves  as  pond 
lilies  float  on  the  water, 

While  hidden  by  bloom  in  a  hawthorn  a  bird  filled  the 
morning  with  singing. 
. 

It  widened  a  highway,  majestic,  stretching  ever  to  dis 
tant  horizons, 

Where  shadows  of  tree-branches  wavered,  vague  out 
lines  invaded  by  sunshine; 

No  sound  but  the  wind  as  it  whispered  the  secrets  of 
earth  to  the  flowers, 


48  LYRICAL,   POEMS 

And  the  hum  of  the  yellow  bees,  honey-laden  and 

dusty  with  pollen. 
And  Summer  said,  "Come,  follow  onward,  with  no 

thought  save  the  longing  to  wander, 
The  wind,  and  the  bees,  and  the  flowers,  all  singing  the 

great  song  of  Nature, 
Are  minstrels  of  change  and  of  promise,  they  herald 

the  joy  of  the  Future." 

Later  the  solitude  vanished,  confused  and  distracted 
the  road 

Where  many  were  seeking  and  jostling.  Left  behind 
were  the  trees  and  the  flowers, 

The  half-realized  beauty  of  quiet,  the  sacred  uncon 
scious  communing. 

And  now  he  is  come  to  a  river,  a  line  of  gray,  sullen 
water, 

Not  blue  and  splashing,  but  dark,  rolling  somberly  on 
to  the  ocean. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  49 

But  on  the  far  side  is  a  city  whose  windows  flame  gold 

in  the  sunset. 
It  lies  fair  and  shining  before  him,  a  gem  set  betwixt 

sky  and  water, 

And  spanning  the  river  a  bridge,  frail  promise  to  long 
ing  desire, 
Flung  by  man  in  his  infinite  courage,  across  the  stern 

force  of  the  water; 
And  he  looks  at  the  river  and  fears,  the  bridge  is  so 

slight,  yet  he  ventures 
lis  life  to  its  fragile  keeping,  if  it  fails  the  waves  will 

engulf  him. 
)  Arches!  be  strong  to  uphold  him,  and  bear  him  across 

to  the  city, 
?he  beautiful  city  whose  spires  still  glow  with  the 

fires  of  sunset! 


50  LYRICAL   POEMS 


LOOK,  Dear,  how  bright  the  moonlight  is  to-night! 

See  where  it  casts  the  shadow  of  that  tree 

Far  out  upon  the  grass.   And  every  gust 

Of  light  night  wind  comes  laden  with  the  scent 

Of  opening  flowers  which  never  bloom  by  day: 

Night-scented  stocks,  and  four-o'clocks,  and  that 

Pale  yellow  disk,  upreared  on  its  tall  stalk, 

The  evening  primrose,  comrade  of  the  stars. 

It  seems  as  though  the  garden  which  you  love 

Were  like  a  swinging  censer,  its  incense 

Floating  before  us  as  a  reverent  act 

To  sanctify  and  bless  our  night  of  love. 

Tell  me  once  more  you  love  me,  that  't  is  you 

Yes,  really  you,  I  touch,  so,  with  my  hand; 

And  tell  me  it  is  by  your  own  free  will 


LYRICAL    POEMS  51 

That  you  are  here,  and  that  you  like  to  be 

Just  here,  with  me,  under  this  sailing  pine. 

I  need  to  hear  it  often  for  my  heart 

Doubts  naturally,  and  finds  it  hard  to  trust. 

Ah,  Dearest,  you  are  good  to  love  me  so, 

And  yet  I  would  not  have  it  goodness,  rather 

Excess  of  selfishness  in  you  to  need 

Me  through  and  through,  as  flowers  need  the  sun, 

I  wonder  can  it  really  be  that  you 

And  I  are  here  alone,  and  that  the  night 

Is  full  of  hours,  and  all  the  world  asleep, 

And  none  can  call  to  you  to  come  away; 

For  you  have  given  all  yourself  to  me 

Making  me  gentle  by  your  willingness. 

Has  your  life  too  been  waiting  for  this  time, 

Not  only  mine  the  sharpness  of  this  joy? 

Dear  Heart,  I  love  you,  worship  you  as  though 

I  were  a  priest  before  a  holy  shrine. 

I'm  glad  that  you  are  beautiful,  although 


52  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Were  you  not  lovely  still  I  needs  must  love; 
But  you  are  all  things,  it  must  have  been  so 
For  otherwise  it  were  not  you.   Come,  close; 
When  you  are  in  the  circle  of  my  arm 
Faith  grows  a  mountain  and  I  take  my  stand 
Upon  its  utmost  top.   Yes,  yes,  once  more 
Kiss  me,  and  let  me  feel  you  very  near 
Wanting  me  wholly,  even  as  I  want  you. 
Have  years  behind  been  dark?  Will  those  to  come 
Bring  unguessed  sorrows  into  our  two  lives? 
What  does  it  matter,  we  have  had  to-night! 
To-night  will  make  us  strong,  for  we  believe 
Each  in  the  other,  this  is  a  sacrament. 
Beloved,  is  it  true? 


LYRICAL  POEMS 


53 


ROADS 


I  KNOW  a  country  laced  with  roads, 

They  join  the  hills  and  they  span  the  brooks, 
They  weave  like  a  shuttle  between  broad  fields, 

And  slide  discreetly  through  hidden  nooks. 
They  are  canopied  like  a  Persian  dome 

And  carpeted  with  orient  dyes. 
They  are  myriad- voiced,  and  musical, 

And  scented  with  happiest  memories. 
O  Winding  roads  that  I  know  so  well, 

Every  twist  and  turn,  every  hollow  and  hill! 
They  are  set  in  my  heart  to  a  pulsing  tune 

Gay  as  a  honey-bee  humming  in  June. 
'T  is  the  rhythmic  beat  of  a  horse's  feet 

And  the  pattering  paws  of  a  sheep-dog  bitch; 
'T  is  the  creaking  trees,  and  the  singing  breeze, 

And  the  rustle  of  leaves  in  the  road-side  ditch. 


54  LYRICAL   POEMS 

A  cow  in  a  meadow  shakes  her  bell 

And  the  notes  cut  sharp  through  the  autumn  air, 

Each  chattering  brook  bears  a  fleet  of  leaves 
Their  cargo  the  rainbow,  and  just  now  where 
The  sun  splashed  bright  on  the  road  ahead 

A  startled  rabbit  quivered  and  fled. 

0  Uphill  roads  and  roads  that  dip  down ! 
You  curl  your  sun-spattered  length  along, 

And  your  march  is  beaten  into  a  song 
By  the  softly  ringing  hoofs  of  a  horse 

And  the  panting  breath  of  the  dogs  I  love. 
The  pageant  of  Autumn  follows  its  course 

And  the  blue  sky  of  Autumn  laughs  above. 

And  the  song  and  the  country  become  as  one, 

1  see  it  as  music,  I  hear  it  as  light; 
Prismatic  and  shimmering,  trembling  to  tone, 

The  land  of  desire,  my  soul's  delight. 
And  always  it  beats  in  my  listening  ears 


LYRICAL    POEMS 

With  the  gentle  thud  of  a  horse's  stride, 
With  the  swift-falling  steps  of  many  dogs, 

Following,  following  at  my  side. 
O  Roads  that  journey  to  fairyland! 

Radiant  highways  whose  vistas  gleam, 
Leading  me  on,  under  crimson  leaves, 

To  the  opaline  gates  of  the  Castles  of  Dream. 


55 


56  LYRICAL  POEMS 

TEATRO  BAMBINO 

Dublin,  N.  H. 

How  still  it  is!  Sunshine  itself  here  falls 

In  quiet  shafts  of  light  through  the  high  trees 

Which,  arching,  make  a  roof  above  the  walls 
Changing  from  sun  to  shadow  as  each  breeze 

Lingers  a  moment,  charmed  by  the  strange  sight 

Of  an  Italian  theatre,  storied,  seer 

Of  vague  romance,  and  tune's  long  history; 

Where  tiers  of  grass-grown  seats  sprinkled  with  white, 
Sweet-scented  clover,  form  a  broken  sphere 
Grouped  round  the  stage  in  hushed  expectancy. 

What  sound  is  that  which  echoes  through  the  wood? 

Is  it  the  reedy  note  of  an  oaten  pipe? 
Perchance  a  minute  more  will  see  the  brood 

Of  the  shaggy  forest  god,  and  on  his  lip 


LYRICAL   POEMS  57 

Will  rest  the  rushes  he  is  wont  to  play. 

His  train  in  woven  baskets  bear  ripe  fruit 

And  weave  a  dance  with  ropes  of  gray  acorns. 
So  light  their  touch  the  grasses  scarcely  sway 

As  they  the  measure  tread  to  the  lilting  flute. 

Alas !  't  is  only  Fancy  thus  adorns. 

A  cloud  drifts  idly  over  the  shining  sun. 

How  damp  it  seems,  how  silent,  still,  and  strange! 
Surely  't  was  here  some  tragedy  was  done, 

And  here  the  chorus  sang  each  coming  change? 
Sure  this  is  deep  in  some  sweet,  southern  wood, 

These  are  not  pines,  but  cypress  tall  and  dark; 

That  is  no  thrush  which  sings  so  rapturously, 
But  the  nightingale  in  his  most  passionate  mood 

Bursting  his  little  heart  with  anguish.  Hark! 

The  tread  of  sandalled  feet  comes  noiselessly. 

The  silence  almost  is  a  sound,  and  dreams 
Take  on  the  semblances  of  finite  things; 


58  LYRICAL   POEMS 

So  potent  is  the  spell  that  what  but  seems 
Elsewhere,  is  lifted  here  on  Fancy's  wings. 

The  little  woodland  theatre  seems  to  wait, 
All  tremulous  with  hope  and  wistful  joy, 
For  something  that  is  sure  to  come  at  last, 

Some  deep  emotion,  satisfying,  great. 
It  grows  a  living  presence,  bold  and  shy, 
Cradling  the  future  in  a  glorious  past. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  59 


THE  ROAD  TO  AVIGNON 

A  MINSTREL  stands  on  a  marble  stair, 
Blown  by  the  bright  wind,  debonair; 
Below  lies  the  sea,  a  sapphire  floor, 
Above  on  the  terrace  a  turret  door 
Frames  a  lady,  listless  and  wan, 
But  fair  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon. 
The  minstrel  plucks  at  his  silver  strings, 
And  looking  up  to  the  lady,  sings:  — 
Down  the  road  to  Avignon, 
The  long,  long  road  to  Avignon, 
Across  the  bridge  to  Avignon, 
One  morning  in  the  spring. 

The  octagon  tower  casts  a  shade 
Cool  and  gray  like  a  cutlass  blade; 


LYRICAL   POEMS 

In  sun-baked  vines  the  cicalas  spin, 
The  little  green  lizards  run  out  and  in. 
A  sail  dips  over  the  ocean's  rim, 
And  bubbles  rise  to  the  fountain's  brim. 
The  minstrel  touches  his  silver  strings, 
And  gazing  up  to  the  lady,  sings:  — 
Down  the  road  to  Avignon, 
The  long,  long  road  to  Avignon, 
Across  the  bridge  to  Avignon, 
One  morning  in  the  spring. 


Slowly  she  walks  to  the  balustrade, 

Idly  notes  how  the  blossoms  fade 

In  the  sun's  caress;  then  crosses  where 

The  shadow  shelters  a  carven  chair. 

Within  its  curve,  supine  she  lies, 

And  wearily  closes  her  tired  eyes. 

The  minstrel  beseeches  his  silver  strings, 


LYRICAL   POEMS  61 

And  holding  the  lady  spellbound,  sings :  — 
Down  the  road  to  Avignon, 
The  long,  long  road  to  Avignon, 
Across  the  bridge  to  Avignon, 
One  morning  in  the  spring. 


Clouds  sail  over  the  distant  trees, 
Petals  are  shaken  down  by  the  breeze, 
They  fall  on  the  terrace  tiles  like  snow; 
The  sighing  of  waves  sounds,  far  below. 
A  humming-bird  kisses  the  lips  of  a  rose 
Then  laden  with  honey  and  love  he  goes. 
The  minstrel  woos  with  his  silver  strings, 
And  climbing  up  to  the  lady,  sings:  — 
Down  the  road  to  Avignon, 
The  long,  long  road  to  Avignon, 
Across  the  bridge  to  Avignon, 
One  morning  in  the  spring. 


62  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Step  by  step,  and  he  comes  to  her, 

Fearful  lest  she  suddenly  stir. 

Sunshine  and  silence,  and  each  to  each, 

The  lute  and  his  singing  their  only  speech; 

He  leans  above  her,  her  eyes  unclose, 

The  humming-bird  enters  another  rose. 

The  minstrel  hushes  his  silver  strings. 

Hark!  The  beating  of  humming-birds'  wings! 
Down  the  road  to  Avignon, 
The  long,  long  road  to  Avignon, 
Across  the  bridge  to  Avignon, 
One  morning  in  the  spring. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  63 

NEW  YORK  AT  NIGHT 

A  NEAR  horizon  whose  sharp  jags 

Cut  brutally  into  a  sky 
Of  leaden  heaviness,  and  crags 
Of  houses  lift  their  masonry 

Ugly  and  foul,  and  chimneys  lie 
And  snort,  outlined  against  the  gray 

Of  lowhung  cloud.   I  hear  the  sigh 
The  goaded  city  gives,  not  day 
Nor  night  can  ease  her  heart,  her  anguished 
labours  stay. 

Below,  straight  streets,  monotonous, 

From  north  and  south,  from  east  and  west, 

Stretch  glittering;  and  luminous 
Above,  one  tower  tops  the  rest 
And  holds  aloft  man's  constant  quest: 


64  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Time!  Joyless  emblem  of  the  greed 

Of  millions,  robber  of  the  best 
Which  earth  can  give,  the  vulgar  creed 
Has  seared  upon  the  night  its  flaming  ruthless  screed. 

O  Night!  Whose  soothing  presence  brings 

The  quiet  shining  of  the  stars. 
O  Night!  Whose  cloak  of  darkness  clings 

So  intimately  close  that  scars 

Are  hid  from  our  own  eyes.  Beggars 
By  day,  our  wealth  is  having  night 

To  burn  our  souls  before  altars 
Dim  and  tree-shadowed,  where  the  light 
Is  shed  from  a  young  moon,  mysteriously  bright. 

Where  art  thou  hiding,  where  thy  peace? 

This  is  the  hour,  but  thou  art  not. 
Will  waking  tumult  never  cease? 

Hast  thou  thy  votary  forgot? 


LYRICAL   POEMS  65 

Nature  forsakes  this  man-begot 
And  festering  wilderness,  and  now 

The  long  still  hours  are  here,  no  jot 
Of  dear  communing  do  I  know; 
Instead  the  glaring,  man-filled  city  groans  below! 


66  LYRICAL   POEMS 


A  FAIRY  TALE 

ON  winter  nights  beside  the  nursery  fire 

We  read  the  fairy  tale,  while  glowing  coals 

Builded  its  pictures.  There  before  our  eyes 

We  saw  the  vaulted  hall  of  traceried  stone 

Uprear  itself,  the  distant  ceiling  hung 

With  pendent  stalactites  like  frozen  vines; 

And  all  along  the  walls  at  intervals, 

Curled  upwards  into  pillars,  roses  climbed, 

And  ramped  and  were  confined,  and  clustered  leaves 

Divided  where  there  peered  a  laughing  face. 

The  foliage  seemed  to  rustle  in  the  wind, 

A  silent  murmur,  carved  in  still,  gray  stone. 

High  pointed  windows  pierced  the  southern  wall 

Whence  proud  escutcheons  flung  prismatic  fires 

To  stain  the  tessellated  marble  floor 


LYRICAL   POEMS  67 

With  pools  of  red,  and  quivering  green,  and  blue; 
And  in  the  shade  beyond  the  further  door, 
Its  sober  squares  of  black  and  white  were  hid 
Beneath  a  restless,  shuffling,  wide-eyed  mob 
Of  lackeys  and  retainers  come  to  view 
The  Christening. 

A  sudden  blare  of  trumpets,  and  the  throng 
About  the  entrance  parted  as  the  guests 
Filed  singly  in  with  rare  and  precious  gifts. 
Our  eager  fancies  noted  all  they  brought, 
The  glorious,  unattainable  delights! 
But  always  there  was  one  unbidden  guest 
Who  cursed  the  child  and  left  it  bitterness. 

The  fire  falls  asunder,  all  is  changed, 

I  am  no  more  a  child,  and  what  I  see 

Is  not  a  fairy  tale,  but  life,  my  life. 

The  gifts  are  there,  the  many  pleasant  things: 

Health,  wealth,  long-settled  friendships,  with  a  name 


68  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Which  honors  all  who  bear  it,  and  the  power 
Of  making  words  obedient.   This  is  much; 
But  overshadowing  all  is  still  the  curse, 
That  never  shall  I  be  fulfilled  by  love! 
Along  the  parching  highroad  of  the  world 
No  other  soul  shall  bear  mine  company. 
Always  shall  I  be  teased  with  semblances, 
With  cruel  impostures,  which  I  trust  awhile 
Then  dash  to  pieces,  as  a  careless  boy 
Flings  a  kaleidoscope,  which  shattering 
Strews  all  the  ground  about  with  coloured  sherds. 
So  I  behold  my  visions  on  the  ground 
No  longer  radiant,  an  ignoble  heap 
Of  broken,  dusty  glass.  And  so,  unlit, 
Even  by  hope  or  faith,  my  dragging  steps 
Force  me  forever  through  the  passing  days. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  69 


CROWNED 

You  came  to  me  bearing  bright  roses, 

Red  like  the  wine  of  your  heart; 
You  twisted  them  into  a  garland 

To  set  me  aside  from  the  mart. 
Red  roses  to  crown  me  your  lover, 

And  I  walked  aureoled  and  apart. 

Enslaved  and  encircled,  I  bore  it, 

Proud  token  of  my  gift  to  you. 
The  petals  waned  paler,  and  shriveled, 

And  dropped;  and  the  thorns  started  through. 
Bitter  thorns  to  proclaim  me  your  lover, 

A  diadem  woven  with  rue. 


70  LYRICAL   POEMS 


TO 
ELIZABETH  WARD   PERKINS 

DEAR  Bessie,  would  my  tired  rhyme 
Had  force  to  rise  from  apathy, 
And  shaking  off  its  lethargy 

Ring  word-tones  like  a  Christmas  chime. 

But  in  my  soul's  high  belfry,  chill 
The  bitter  wind  of  doubt  has  blown, 
The  summer  swallows  all  have  flown, 

The  bells  are  frost-bound,  mute  and  still. 

Upon  the  crumbling  boards  the  snow 
Has  drifted  deep,  the  clappers  hang 
Prismed  with  icicles,  their  clang 

Unheard  since  ages  long  ago. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  71 

The  rope  I  pull  is  stiff  and  cold, 
My  straining  ears  detect  no  sound 
Except  a  sigh,  as  round  and  round 

The  wind  rocks  through  the  timbers  old. 

Below,  I  know  the  church  is  bright 

With  haloed  tapers,  warm  with  prayer; 
But  here  I  only  feel  the  air 

Of  icy  centuries  of  night. 

Beneath  my  feet  the  snow  is  lit 

And  gemmed  with  colours,  red,  and  blue, 
Topaz,  and  green,  where  light  falls  through 

The  saints  that  in  the  windows  sit. 

Here  darkness  seems  a  spectred  thing, 
Voiceless  and  haunting,  while  the  stars 
Mock  with  a  light  of  long  dead  years 

The  ache  of  present  suffering. 


72  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Silent  and  winter-killed  I  stand, 
No  carol  hymns  my  debt  to  you; 
But  take  this  frozen  thought  in  lieu, 

And  thaw  its  music  in  your  hand. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  73 


THE  PROMISE  OF  THE  MORNING 
STAR 

/\ 

THOU  father  of  the  children  of  my  brain 

By  thee  engendered  in  my  willing  heart, 
How  can  I  thank  thee  for  this  gift  of  art 
.     Poured  out  so  lavishly,  and  not  in  vain. 

What  thou  created  never  more  can  die, 
Thy  fructifying  power  lives  in  me 
And  I  conceive,  knowing  it  is  by  thee, 

Dear  other  parent  of  my  poetry! 

For  I  was  but  a  shadow  with  a  name, 
Perhaps  by  now  the  very  name's  forgot; 
So  strange  is  Fate  that  it  has  been  my  lot 

To  learn  through  thee  the  presence  of  that  aim 


74  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Which  evermore  must  guide  me.  All  unknown, 
By  me  unguessed,  by  thee  not  even  dreamed, 
A  tree  has  blossomed  in  a  night  that  seemed 

Of  stubborn,  barren  wood.  For  thou  hast  sown 

This  seed  of  beauty  in  a  ground  of  truth. 
Humbly  I  dedicate  myself,  and  yet 
I  tremble  with  a  sudden  fear  to  set 

New  music  ringing  through  my  fading  youth. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  75 


J—  K.  HUYSMANS 


A  FLICKERING  glimmer  through  a  window-pane, 

A  dim  red  glare  through  mud  bespattered  glass, 

Cleaving  a  path  between  blown  walls  of  sleet 

Across  uneven  pavements  sunk  in  slime 

To  scatter  and  then  quench  itself  in  mist. 

And  struggling,  slipping,  often  rudely  hurled 

Against  the  jutting  angle  of  a  wall, 

And  cursed,  and  reeled  against,  and  flung  aside 

By  drunken  brawlers  as  they  shuffled  past, 

A  man  was  groping  to  what  seemed  a  light. 

His  eyelids  burnt  and  quivered  with  the  strain 

Of  looking,  and  against  his  temples  beat 

The  all  enshrouding,  suffocating  dark. 

He  stumbled,  lurched,  and  struck  against  a  door 

That  opened,  and  a  howl  of  obscene  mirth 


76  LYRICAL   POEMS 

Grated  his  senses,  wallowing  on  the  floor 
Lay  men,  and  dogs  and  women  in  the  dirt. 

He  sickened,  loathing  it,  and  as  he  gazed 

II 
The  candle  guttered,  flared,  and  then  went  out. 

' 

• 

Through  travail  of  ignoble  midnight  streets 

He  came  at  last  to  shelter  in  a  porch 

Where  gothic  saints  and  warriors  made  a  shield 

To  cover  him,  and  tortured  gargoyles  spat 

/ 
One  long  continuous  stream  of  silver  rain 

That  clattered  down  from  myriad  roofs  and  spires 

Into  a  darkness,  loud  with  rushing  sound 

Of  water  falling,  gurgling  as  it  fell, 

But  always  thickly  dark.   Then  as  he  leaned 

Unconscious  where,  the  great  oak  door  blew  back 

. 
And  cast  him,  bruised  and  dripping*  in  the  church. 

His  eyes  from  long  sojourning  in  the  night 
Were  blinded  now  as  by  some  glorious  sun; 
He  slowly  crawled  toward  the  altar  steps. 


LYRICAL   POEMS  77 

He  could  not  think,  for  heavy  in  his  ears 
An  organ  boomed  majestic  harmonies; 
He  only  knew  that  what  he  saw  was  light! 
He  bowed  himself  before  a  cross  of  flame 
And  shut  his  eyes  in  fear  lest  it  should  fade. 


78 


LYRICAL   POEMS 


MARCH  EVENING 

BLUE  through  the  window  burns  the  twilight; 

Heavy,  through   trees,  blows   the  warm  south 

wind. 
Glistening,  against  the  chill,  gray  sky  light, 

Wet,  black  branches  are  barred  and  entwined. 

Sodden  and  spongy,  the  scarce-green  grass  plot 
Dents  into  pools  where  a  foot  has  been. 

Puddles  lie  spilt  in  the  road  a  mass,  not 

Of  water,  but  steel,  with  its  cold,  hard  sheen. 

Faint  fades  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  its  embers 

Scattering  wide  at  a  stronger  gust. 
Above,  the  old  weathercock  groans,  but  remembers 

Creaking,  to  turn,  in  its  centuried  rust. 


LYRICAL,   POEMS  79 

Dying,  forlorn,  in  dreary  sorrow, 

Wrapping  the  mists  round  her  withering  form, 
Day  sinks  down;  and  in  darkness  to-morrow 

Travails  to  birth  in  the  womb  of  the  storm. 


SONNETS 


SONNETS 


LEISURE 

LEISURE,  them  goddess  of  a  bygone  age, 

When  hours  were  long  and  days  sufficed  to  hold 
Wide-eyed  delights  and  pleasures  uncontrolled 

By  shortening  moments,  when  no  gaunt  presage 

Of  undone  duties,  modern  heritage, 

Haunted  our  happy  minds;  must  thou  withhold 
Thy  presence  from  this  over-busy  world, 

And  bearing  silence  with  thee  disengage 

Our  twined  fortunes?   Deeps  of  unhewn  woods 
Alone  can  cherish  thee,  alone  possess 

Thy  quiet,  teeming  vigor.  This  our  crime: 

Not  to  have  worshipped,  marred  by  alien  moods 
That  sole  condition  of  all  loveliness, 

The  dreaming  lapse  of  slow,  unmeasured  time. 


84  SONNETS 

ON  CARPACCIO'S  PICTURE 

THE    DREAM    OF   ST.    URSULA 

SWEPT,  clean,  and  still,  across  the  polished  floor 
From  some  unshuttered  casement,  hid  from  sight, 
The  level  sunshine  slants,  its  greater  light 

Quenching  the  little  lamp  which  pallid,  poor, 

Flickering,  unreplenished,  at  the  door 

Has  striven  against  darkness  the  long  night. 
Dawn  fills  the  room,  and  penetrating,  bright, 

The  silent  sunbeams  through  the  window  pour. 
And  she  lies  sleeping,  ignorant  of  Fate, 
Enmeshed  in  listless  dreams,  her  soul  not  yet 

Ripened  to  bear  the  purport  of  this  day. 
The  morning  breeze  scarce  stirs  the  coverlet, 
A  shadow  falls  across  the  sunlight;  wait! 

A  lark  is  singing  as  he  flies  away. 


SONNETS  85 


THE  MATRIX 

GOADED  and  harassed  in  the  factory 
That  tears  our  life  up  into  bits  of  days 
Ticked  off  upon  a  clock  which  never  stays, 

Shredding  our  portion  of  Eternity, 

We  break  away  at  last,  and  steal  the  key 
Which  hides  a  world  empty  of  hours;  ways 
Of  space  unroll,  and  Heaven  overlays 

The  leafy,  sun-lit  earth  of  Fantasy. 
Beyond  the  ilex  shadow  glares  the  sun, 
Scorching  against  the  blue  flame  of  the  sky. 

Brown  lily-pads  lie  heavy  and  supine 
Within  a  granite  basin,  under  one 
The  bronze-gold  glimmer  of  a  carp;  and  I 

Reach  out  my  hand  and  pluck  a  nectarine. 


86  SONNETS 


MONADNOCK  IN  EARLY  SPRING 

CLOUD-TOPPED  and  splendid,  dominating  all 
The  little  lesser  hills  which  compass  thee, 
Thou  standest,  bright  with  April's  buoyancy, 

Yet  holding  Winter  in  some  shaded  wall 

Of  stern,  steep  rock;  and  startled  by  the  call 
Of  Spring,  thy  trees  flush  with  expectancy 
And  cast  a  cloud  of  crimson,  silently, 

Above  thy  snowy  crevices  where  fall 

Pale  shrivelled  oak  leaves,  while  the  snow  beneath 
Melts  at  their  phantom  touch.  Another  year 

Is  quick  with  import.  Such  each  year  has  been. 
Unmoved  thou  watchest  all,  and  all  bequeath 
Some  jewel  to  thy  diadem  of  power, 

Thou  pledge  of  greater  majesty  unseen. 


SONNETS  87 


THE  LITTLE  GARDEN 

A  LITTLE  garden  on  a  bleak  hillside 

Where  deep  the  heavy,  dazzling  mountain  snow 

Lies  far  into  the  spring.  The  sun's  pale  glow 
Is  scarcely  able  to  melt  patches  wide 
About  the  single  rose  bush.  All  denied 

Of  nature's  tender  ministries.  But  no,  — 

For  wonder-working  faith  has  made  it  blow 
With  flowers  many  hued  and  starry-eyed. 

Here  sleeps  the  sun  long,  idle  summer  hours; 
Here  butterflies  and  bees  fare  far  to  rove 

Amid  the  crumpled  leaves  of  poppy  flowers; 
Here  four  o'clocks,  to  the  passionate  night  above 

Fling  whin's  of  perfume,  like  pale  incense  showers. 
A  little  garden,  loved  with  a  great  love ! 


88  SONNETS 


TO  AN  EARLY  DAFFODIL 

THOU  yellow  trumpeter  of  laggard  Spring ! 

Thou  herald  of  rich  Summer's  myriad  flowers! 

The  climbing  sun  with  new  recovered  powers 
Does  warm  thee  into  being,  through  the  ring 
Of  rich,  brown  earth  he  woos  thee,  makes  thee  fling 

Thy  green  shoots  up,  inheriting  the  dowers 

Of  bending  sky  and  sudden,  sweeping  showers, 
Till  ripe  and  blossoming  thou  art  a  thing 

To  make  all  nature  glad,  thou  art  so  gay; 
To  fill  the  lonely  with  a  joy  untold; 

Nodding  at  every  gust  of  wind  to-day, 
To-morrow  jewelled  with  raindrops.  Always  bold 

To  stand  erect,  full  in  the  dazzling  play 
Of  April's  sun,  for  thou  hast  caught  his  gold. 


SONNETS  89 


LISTENING 

T  is  you  that  are  the  music,  not  your  song. 

The  song  is  but  a  door  which,  opening  wide, 

Lets  forth  the  pent-up  melody  inside, 
Your  spirit's  harmony,  which  clear  and  strong 
Sings  but  of  you.  Throughout  your  whole  life  long 

Your  songs,  your  thoughts,  your  doings,  each  divide 

This  perfect  beauty;  waves  within  a  tide, 
Or  single  notes  amid  a  glorious  throng. 

The  song  of  earth  has  many  different  chords; 
Ocean  has  many  moods  and  many  tones 

Yet  always  ocean.  In  the  damp  Spring  woods 
The  painted  trillium  smiles,  while  crisp  pine  cones 

Autumn  alone  can  ripen.   So  is  this 

One  music  with  a  thousand  cadences. 


90  SONNETS 


THE  LAMP  OF  LIFE 

ALWAYS  we  are  following  a  light, 

Always  the  light  recedes;  with  groping  hands 
We  stretch  toward  this  glory,  while  the  lands 

We  journey  through  are  hidden  from  our  sight 

Dim  and  mysterious,  folded  deep  in  night, 
We  care  not,  all  our  utmost  need  demands 
Is  but  the  light,  the  light!  So  still  it  stands 

Surely  our  own  if  we  exert  our  might. 

Fool!  Never  can'st  thou  grasp  this  fleeting  gleam, 
Its  glowing  flame  would  die  if  it  were  caught, 

Its  value  is  that  it  doth  always  seem 
But  just  a  little  farther  on.   Distraught, 
But  lighted  ever  onward,  we  are  brought 

Upon  our  way  unknowing,  in  a  dream. 


SONNETS  91 


HERO-WORSHIP 

A  FACE  seen  passing  in  a  crowded  street, 
A  voice  heard  singing  music,  large  and  free; 
And  from  that  moment  life  is  changed,  and  we 

Become  of  more  heroic  temper,  meet 

To  freely  ask  and  give,  a  man  complete 
Radiant  because  of  faith,  we  dare  to  be 
What  Nature  meant  us.  Brave  idolatry 

Which  can  conceive  a  hero!  No  deceit, 

No  knowledge  taught  by  unrelenting  years, 
Can  quench  this  fierce,  untamable  desire. 

We  know  that  what  we  long  for  once  achieved 
Will  cease  to  satisfy.  Be  still  our  fears; 
If  what  we  worship  fail  us,  still  the  fire 

Burns  on,  and  it  is  much  to  have  believed. 


92  SONNETS 


IN  DARKNESS 

MUST  all  of  worth  be  travailled  for,  and  those 
Life's  brightest  stars  rise  from  a  troubled  sea? 
Must  years  go  by  in  sad  uncertainty 

Leaving  us  doubting  whose  the  conquering  blows, 

Are  we  or  Fate  the  victors?  Time  which  shows 
All  inner  meanings  will  reveal,  but  we 
Shall  never  know  the  upshot.  Ours  to  be 

Wasted  with  longing,  shattered  in  the  throes, 
The  agonies  of  splendid  dreams,  which  day 
Dims  from  our  vision,  but  each  night  brings  back; 

We  strive  to  hold  their  grandeur,  and  essay 
To  be  the  thing  we  dream.   Sudden  we  lack 

The  flash  of  insight,  life  grows  drear  and  gray, 
And  hour  follows  hour,  nerveless,  slack. 


SONNETS  93 


BEFORE  DAWN 

LIFE!  Austere  arbiter  of  each  man's  fate, 

By  whom  he  learns  that  Nature's  steadfast  laws 
Are  as  decrees  immutable;  O  pause 

Your  even  forward  march!   Not  yet  too  late 

Teach  me  the  needed  lesson,  when  to  wait 
Inactive  as  a  ship  when  no  wind  draws 
To  stretch  the  loosened  cordage.  One  implores 

Thy  clemency,  whose  wilfulness  innate 

Has  gone  uncurbed  and  roughshod  while  the  years 
Have  lengthened  into  decades;  now  distressed 

He  knows  no  rule  by  which  to  move  or  stay, 
And  teased  with  restlessness  and  desperate  fears 

He  dares  not  watch  in  silence  thy  wise  way 

Bringing  about  results  none  could  have  guessed. 


94  SONNETS 


THE  POET 

IX 

WHAT  instinct  forces  man  to  journey  on, 
Urged  by  a  longing  blind  but  dominant! 
Nothing  he  sees  can  hold  him,  nothing  daunt 
His  never  failing  eagerness.  The  sun 
Setting  in  splendour  every  night  has  won 
His  vassalage;  those  towers  flamboyant 
Of  airy  cloudland  palaces  now  haunt 

His  daylight  wanderings.   Forever  done 

t 

With  simple  joys  and  quiet  happiness 
He  guards  the  vision  of  the  sunset  sky; 

Though  faint  with  weariness  he  must  possess 

,  Some  fragment  of  the  sunset's  majesty; 

He  spurns  life's  human  friendships  to  profess 
Life's  loneliness  of  dreaming  ecstasy. 


SONNETS  95 


AT  NIGHT 

THE  wind  is  singing  through  the  trees  to-night, 
A  deep-voiced  song  of  rushing  cadences 
And  crashing  intervals.   No  summer  breeze 

Is  this,  though  hot  July  is  at  its  height, 

Gone  is  her  gentler  music;  with  delight 
She  listens  to  this  booming  like  the  seas, 
These  elemental,  loud  necessities 

Which  call  to  her  to  answer  their  swift  might. 
Above  the  tossing  trees  shines  down  a  star, 
Quietly  bright;  this  wild,  tumultuous  joy 

Quickens  nor  dims  its  splendour.  And  my  mind, 
O  Star!  is  filled  with  your  white  light,  from  far, 
So  suffer  me  this  one  night  to  enjoy 

The  freedom  of  the  onward  sweeping  wind. 


96  SONNETS 


THE  FRUIT  GARDEN  PATH 

THE  path  runs  straight  between  the  flowering  rows, 
A  moonlit  path,  hemmed  in  by  beds  of  bloom, 
Where  phlox  and  marigolds  dispute  for  room 

With  tall,  red  dahlias  and  the  briar  rose. 

'T  is  reckless  prodigality  which  throws 
Into  the  night  these  wafts  of  rich  perfume 
Which  sweep  across  the  garden  like  a  plume. 

Over  the  trees  a  single  bright  star  glows. 

Dear  garden  of  my  childhood,  here  my  years 

Have  run  away  like  little  grains  of  sand; 
The  moments  of  my  life,  its  hopes  and  fears 

Have  all  found  utterance  here,  where  now  I  stand; 
My  eyes  ache  with  the  weight  of  unshed  tears, 

You  are  my  home,  do  you  not  understand? 


SONNETS  97 


MIRAGE 

*, 

How  is  it  that,  being  gone,  you  fill  my  days, 

And  all  the  long  nights  are  made  glad  by  thee? 

No  loneliness  is  this,  nor  misery, 
But  great  content  that  these  should  be  the  ways 
Whereby  the  Fancy,  dreaming  as  she  strays, 

Makes  bright  and  present  what  she  would  would  be. 

And  who  shall  say  if  the  reality 
Is  not  with  dreams  so  pregnant.  For  delays 

And  hindrances  may  bar  the  wished-for  end; 
A  thousand  misconceptions  may  prevent 

Our  souls  from  coming  near  enough  to  blend; 
Let  me  but  think  we  have  the  same  intent, 

That  each  one  needs  to  call  the  other,  "friend!" 
It  may  be  vain  illusion.  I'm  content. 


98  BONNETS 


TO  A  FRIEND 

I  ASK  but  one  thing  of  you,  only  one, 

That  always  you  will  be  my  dream  of  you; 

That  never  shall  I  wake  to  find  untrue 
All  this  I  have  believed  and  rested  on, 
Forever  vanished,  like  a  vision  gone 

Out  into  the  night.  Alas,  how  few 

There  are  who  strike  in  us  a  chord  we  knew 
Existed,  but  so  seldom  heard  its  tone 

We  tremble  at  the  half-forgotten  sound. 
The  world  is  full  of  rude  awakenings 

And  heaven-born  castles  shattered  to  the  ground, 
Yet  still  our  human  longing  vainly  clings 

To  a  belief  in  beauty  through  all  wrongs. 

O  stay  your  hand,  and  leave  my  heart  its  songs! 


SONNETS  99 


A  FIXED   IDEA 

WHAT  torture  lurks  within  a  single  thought 

When  grown  too  constant,  and  however  kind, 

However  welcome  still,  the  weary  mind 

Aches  with  its  presence.   Dull  remembrance  taught 

Remembers  on  unceasingly;  unsought 

The  old  delight  is  with  us  but  to  find 

That  all  recurring  joy  is  pain  refined, 

Become  a  habit,  and  we  struggle,  caught. 

You  lie  upon  my  heart  as  on  a  nest, 

Folded  in  peace,  for  you  can  never  know 

How  crushed  I  am  with  having  you  at  rest 

Heavy  upon  my  life.   I  love  you  so 

You  bind  my  freedom  from  its  rightful  quest. 

In  mercy  lift  your  drooping  wings  and  go. 


100  SONNETS 


DREAMS 

I  DO  not  care  to  talk  to  you  although 

Your  speech  evokes  a  thousand  sympathies, 

And  all  my  being's  silent  harmonies 
Wake  trembling  into  music.   When  you  go 
It  is  as  if  some  sudden,  dreadful  blow 

Had  severed  all  the  strings  with  savage  ease. 

No,  do  not  talk;  but  let  us  rather  seize 
This  intimate  gift  of  silence  which  we  know. 

Others  may  guess  your  thoughts  from  what  you  say, 

As  storms  are  guessed  from  clouds  where  darkness 

broods. 

To  me  the  very  essence  of  the  day 
Reveals  its  inner  purpose  and  its  moods; 

As  poplars  feel  the  rain  and  then  straightway 
Reverse  their  leaves  and  shimmer  through  the  woods. 


SONNETS  101 


FRANKINCENSE  AND  MYRRH 


MY  heart  is  tuned  to  sorrow,  and  the  strings 
Vibrate  most  readily  to  minor  chords, 
Searching  and  sad;  my  mind  is  stuffed  with  words 

Which  voice  the  passion  and  the  ache  of  things: 

Illusions  beating  with  their  baffled  wings 

Against  the  walls  of  circumstance,  and  hoards 
Of  torn  desires,  broken  joys;  records 
all  a  bruised  life's  maimed  imaginings. 
Now  you  are  come!  You  tremble  like  a  star 

Poised  where,  behind  earth's  rim,  the  sun  has  set. 

Your  voice  has  sung  across  my  heart,  but  numb 
And  mute,  I  have  no  tones  to  answer.   Far 

Within  I  kneel  before  you,  speechless  yet, 

And  life  ablaze  with  beauty,  I  am  dumb. 


102  SONNETS 


FROM  ONE  WHO  STAYS 

How  empty  seems  the  town  now  you  are  gone  I 
A  wilderness  of  sad  streets,  where  gaunt  walls 
Hide  nothing  to  desire;  sunshine  falls 

Eery,  distorted,  as  it  long  had  shone 

On  white,  dead  faces  tombed  in  halls  of  stone. 
The  whir  of  motors,  stricken  through  with  calls 
Of  playing  boys,  floats  up  at  intervals; 

But  all  these  noises  blur  to  one  long  moan. 

What  quest  is  worth  pursuing?  And  how  strange 

That  other  men  still  go  accustomed  ways! 

I  hate  their  interest  in  the  things  they  do. 
A  spectre-horde  repeating  without  change 

An  old  routine.   Alone  I  know  the  days 

Are  still-born,  and  the  world  stopped,  lacking  you. 


SONNETS  103 


CREPUSCULE  DU  MATIN 

ALL,  night  I  wrestled  with  a  memory 

Which  knocked  insurgent  at  the  gates  of  thought. 

The  crumbled  wreck  of  years  behind  has  wrought 
Its  disillusion;  now  I  only  cry 
For  peace,  for  power  to  forget  the  lie 

Which  hope  too  long  has  whispered.    So  I  sought 

The  sleep  which  would  not  come,  and  night  was 

fraught 

With  old  emotions  weeping  silently. 
I  heard  your  voice  again,  and  knew  the  things 

Which  you  had  promised  proved  an  empty  vaunt. 
I  felt  your  clinging  hands  while  night's  broad  wings 
Cherished  our  love  in  darkness.  From  the  lawn 

A  sudden,  quivering  birdnote,  like  a  taunt. 
My  arms  held  nothing  but  the  empty  dawn. 


104  SONNETS 


AFTERMATH 

I  LEARNT  to  write  to  you  in  happier  days, 
And  every  letter  was  a  piece  I  chipped 
From  off  my  heart,  a  fragment  newly  clipped 

From  the  mosaic  of  life;  its  blues  and  grays, 

Its  throbbing  reds,  I  gave  to  earn  your  praise. 
To  make  a  pavement  for  your  feet  I  stripped 
My  soul  for  you  to  walk  upon,  and  slipped 

Beneath  your  steps  to  soften  all  your  ways. 
But  now  my  letters  are  like  blossoms  pale 

We  strew  upon  a  grave  with  hopeless  tears. 
I  ask  no  recompense,  I  shall  not  fail 

Although  you  do  not  heed;  the  long,  sad  years 
Still  pass,  and  still  I  scatter  flowers  frail, 

And  whisper  words  of  love  which  no  one  hears. 


SONNETS  105 


THE  END 

THROUGHOUT  the  echoing  chambers  of  my  brain 
I  hear  your  words  in  mournful  cadence  toll 
Like  some  slow  passing-bell  which  warns  the  soul 

Of  sundering  darkness.  Unrelenting,  fain 

To  batter  down  resistance,  fall  again 
Stroke  after  stroke,  insistent  diastole, 
The  bitter  blows  of  truth,  until  the  whole 

Is  hammered  into  fact  made  strangely  plain. 
Where  shall  I  look  for  comfort?  Not  to  you. 
Our  worlds  are  drawn  apart,  our  spirit's  suns 

Divided,  and  the  light  of  mine  burnt  dim. 
Now  in  the  haunted  twilight  I  must  do 
Your  will.  I  grasp  the  cup  which  over-runs, 

And  with  my  trembling  lips  I  touch  the  rim. 


106  SONNETS 


THE  STARLING 

" *I  can't  get  out,'  said  the  starling." 

STERNE'S  Sentimental  Journey. 

FOREVER  the  impenetrable  wall 
Of  self  confines  my  poor  rebellious  soul, 
I  never  see  the  towering  white  clouds  roll 

Before  a  sturdy  wind,  save  through  the  small 

Barred  window  of  my  jail.  I  live  a  thrall 
With  all  my  outer  life  a  clipped,  square  hole, 
Rectangular;  a  fraction  of  a  scroll 

Unwound  and  winding  like  a  worsted  ball. 

My  thoughts  are  grown  uneager  and  depressed 
Through  being  always  mine,  my  fancy's  wings 

Are  moulted  and  the  feathers  blown  away. 
I  weary  for  desires  never  guessed, 
For  alien  passions,  strange  imaginings, 

To  be  some  other  person  for  a  day. 


SONNETS  107 


MARKET  DAY 

WHITE,  glittering  sunlight  fills  the  market  square, 
Spotted  and  sprigged  with  shadows.  Double  rows 
Of  bartering  booths  spread  out  their  tempting  shows 

Of  globed  and  golden  fruit,  the  morning  air 

Smells  sweet  with  ripeness,  on  the  pavement  there 
A  wicker  basket  gapes  and  overflows 
Spilling  out  cool,  blue  plums.  The  market  glows, 

And  flaunts,  and  clatters  in  its  busy  care. 
A  stately  minster  at  the  northern  side 

Lifts  its  twin  spires  to  the  distant  sky, 

Pinnacled,  carved  and  buttressed;  through  the  wide 

Arched  doorway  peals  an  organ,  suddenly  — 
Crashing,  triumphant  in  its  pregnant  tide, 

Quenching  the  square  in  vibrant  harmony. 


108  SONNETS 


EPITAPH  IN  A  CHURCH-YARD 
IN  CHARLESTON,  SOUTH  CAROLINA 

GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  CLOUGH 

A  NATIVE  OF  LIVERPOOL, 

DIED  SUDDENLY  OF  "STRANGER'S  FEVEB" 

NOV'R  5th  1843 

AGED  22 

HE  died  of  "Stranger's  Fever"  when  his  youth 
Had  scarcely  melted  into  manhood,  so 
The  chiselled  legend  runs;  a  brother's  woe 

Laid  bare  for  epitaph.  The  savage  ruth 

Of  a  sunny,  bright,  but  alien  land,  uncouth 
With  cruel  caressing  dealt  a  mortal  blow, 
And  by  this  summer  sea  where  flowers  grow 

In  tropic  splendor,  witness  to  the  truth 

Of  ineradicable  race  he  lies. 
The  law  of  duty  urged  that  he  should  roam, 


SONNETS  109 

Should  sail  from  fog  and  chilly  airs  to  skies 
Clear  with  deceitful  welcome.  He  had  come 

With  proud  resolve,  but  still  his  lonely  eyes 
Ached  with  fatigue  at  never  seeing  home. 


110  SONNETS 


FRANCIS  II,  KING  OF  NAPLES 

WRITTEN  AFTER  READING  TREVELYAN'S  "  GARI 
BALDI   AND   THE   MAKING  OF   ITALY  " 

POOR  foolish  monarch,  vacillating,  vain, 

Decaying  victim  of  a  race  of  kings, 

Swift  Destiny  shook  out  her  purple  wings 
And  caught  him  in  their  shadow;  not  again 
Could  furtive  plotting  smear  another  stain 

Across  his  tarnished  honour.   Smoulderings 

Of  sacrificial  fires  burst  their  rings 
And  blotted  out  in  smoke  his  lost  domain. 
Bereft  of  courtiers,  only  with  his  queen, 

From  empty  palace  down  to  empty  quay. 
No  challenge  screamed  from  hostile  carabine. 

A  single  vessel  waited,  shadowy; 

All  night  she  ploughed  her  solitary  way 
Beneath  the  stars,  and  through  a  tranquil  sea. 


SONNETS  111 


TO  JOHN  KEATS 

GREAT  master!  Boyish,  sympathetic  man! 

Whose  orbed  and  ripened  genius  lightly  hung    \ 
From  life's  slim,  twisted  tendril  and  there  swung 

In  crimson-sphered  completeness;  guardian     &- 

Of  crystal  portals  through  whose  openings  fan 

The  spiced  winds  which  blew  when  earth  was  young, 
Scattering  wreaths  of  stars,  as  Jove~TJnce  flung 

A  golden  shower  from  heights  cerulean. 
Crumbled  before  thy  majesty  we  bow.     c 
Forget  thy  empurpled  state,  thy  panoply 

Of  greatness,  and  be  merciful  and  near;       JL 

A  youth  who  trudged  the  highroad  we  tread  now 
Singing  the  miles  behind  him;  so  may  we  X 

Faint  throbbings  of  thy  music  overhear. 


THE  BOSTON  ATHENAEUM 


THE    BOSTON   ATHENAEUM  115 


THOU  dear  and  well-loved  haunt  of  happy  hours, 
How  often  in  some  distant  gallery, 
Gained  by  a  little  painful  spiral  stair, 
Far  from  the  halls  and  corridors  where  throng 
The  crowd  of  casual  readers,  have  I  passed 
Long,  peaceful  hours  seated  on  the  floor 
Of  some  retired  nook,  all  lined  with  books, 
Where  reverie  and  quiet  reign  supreme! 
Above,  below,  on  every  side,  high  shelved 
From  careless  grasp  of  transient  interest, 
Stand  books  we  can  but  dimly  see,  their  charm 
Much  greater  that  their  titles  are  unread; 
While  on  a  level  with  the  dusty  floor 
Others  are  ranged  in  orderly  confusion, 
And  we  must  stoop  in  painful  posture  while 


116  THE   BOSTON   ATHENJETJM 

We  read  their  names  and  learn  their  histories. 

The  little  gallery  winds  round  about 

The  middle  of  a  most  secluded  room, 

Midway  between  the  ceiling  and  the  floor. 

A  type  of  those  high  thoughts,  which  while  we  read 

Hover  between  the  earth  and  furthest  heaven 

As  fancy  wills,  leaving  the  printed  page; 

For  books  but  give  the  theme,  our  hearts  the  rest, 

Enriching  simple  words  with  unguessed  harmony 

And  overtones  of  thought  we  only  know. 

And  as  we  sit  long  hours  quietly, 

Reading  at  times,  and  at  times  simply  dreaming, 

The  very  room  itself  becomes  a  friend, 

The  confidant  of  intimate  hopes  and  fears; 

A  place  where  are  engendered  pleasant  thoughts, 

And  possibilities  before  unguessed 

Come  to  fruition  born  of  sympathy. 

And  as  in  some  gay  garden  stretched  upon 

A  genial  southern  slope,  warmed  by  the  sun, 


THE   BOSTON   ATHENAEUM  117 

The  flowers  give  their  fragrance  joyously 

To  the  caressing  touch  of  the  hot  noon; 

So  books  give  up  the  all  of  what  they  mean 

Only  in  a  congenial  atmosphere, 

Only  when  touched  by  reverent  hands,  and  read 

By  those  who  love  and  feel  as  well  as  think. 

For  books  are  more  than  books,  they  are  the  life, 

The  very  heart  and  core  of  ages  past, 

The  reason  why  men  lived,  and  worked,  and  died, 

The  essence  and  quintessence  of  their  lives. 

And  we  may  know  them  better,  and  divine 

The  inner  motives  whence  their  actions  sprang, 

Far  better  than  the  men  who  only  knew 

Their  bodily  presence,  the  soul  forever  hid 

From  those  with  no  ability  to  see. 

They  wait  here  quietly  for  us  to  come 

And  find  them  out,  and  know  them  for  our  friends; 

These  men  who  toiled  and  wrote  only  for  this, 

To  leave  behind  such  modicum  of  truth 


118  THE   BOSTON   ATHEN.EUM 

As  each  perceived  and  each  alone  could  tell. 
i 

Silently  waiting  that  from  time  to  time 

It  may  be  given  them  to  illuminate 

Dull  daily  facts  with  pristine  radiance 

For  some  long-waited-for  affinity 

Who  lingers  yet  in  the  deep  womb  of  time. 

The  shifting  sun  pierces  the  young  green  leaves 

Of  elm  trees,  newly  coming  into  bud, 

And  splashes  on  the  floor  and  on  the  books 

Through  old,  high,  rounded  windows,  dim  with  age. 

The  noisy  city-sounds  of  modern  life 

Float  softened  to  us  across  the  old  graveyard. 

The  room  is  filled  with  a  warm,  mellow  light, 

No  garish  colours  jar  on  our  content, 

The  books  upon  the  shelves  are  old  and  worn. 

Li^^""^*««^^^^^* 

'T  was  no  belated  effort  nor  attempt 

To  keep  abreast  with  old  as  well  as  new 

That  placed  them  here,  tricked  in  a  modern  guise, 

Easily  got,  and  held  in  light  esteem. 


THE   BOSTON   ATHENAEUM  119 

Our  fathers'  fathers,  slowly  and  carefully 

Gathered  them,  one  by  one,  when  they  were  new 

And  a  delighted  world  received  their  thoughts 

Hungrily;  while  we  but  love  the  more, 

Because  they  are  so  old  and  grown  so  dear! 

The  backs  of  tarnished  gold,  the  faded  boards, 

The  slightly  yellowing  page,  the  strange  old  type, 

All  speak  the  fashion  of  another  age; 

The  thoughts  peculiar  to  the  man  who  wrote 

Arrayed  in  garb  peculiar  to  the  time; 

As  though  the  idiom  of  a  man  were  caught 

Imprisoned  in  the  idiom  of  a  race. 

A  nothing  truly,  yet  a  link  that  binds 

All  ages  to  their  own  inheritance, 

And  stretching  backward,  dim  and  dimmer  still, 

Is  lost  in  a  remote  antiquity. 

Grapes  do  not  come  of  thorns  nor  figs  of  thistles, 

And  even  a  great  poet's  divinest  thought 

Is  coloured  by  the  world  he  knows  and  sees. 


120  THE   BOSTON   ATHENAEUM 

The  little  intimate  things  of  every  day, 
The  trivial  nothings  that  we  think  not  of, 
These  go  to  make  a  part  of  each  man's  life; 
As  much  a  part  as  do  the  larger  thoughts 
He  takes  account  of.  Nay,  the  little  things 
Of  daily  life  it  is  which  mold,  and  shape, 
And  make  him  apt  for  noble  deeds  and  true. 
And  as  we  read  some  much-loved  masterpiece, 
Read  it  as  long  ago  the  author  read, 
With  eyes  that  brimmed  with  tears  as  he  saw 
The  message  he  believed  in  stamped  in  type 
Inviolable  for  the  slow-coming  years; 
We  know  a  certain  subtle  sympathy, 
We  seem  to  clasp  his  hand  across  the  past, 
His  words  become  related  to  the  time, 
He  is  at  one  with  his  own  glorious  creed 
And  all  that  in  his  world  was  dared  and  done. 
The  long,  still,  fruitful  hours  slip  away 
Shedding  their  influences  as  they  pass; 


THE   BOSTON   ATHENAEUM  121 

We  know  ourselves  the  richer  to  have  sat 
Upon  this  dusty  floor  and  dreamed  our  dreams. 
No  other  place  to  us  were  quite  the  same, 
No  other  dreams  so  potent  in  their  charm, 
For  this  is  ours!  Every  twist  and  turn 
Of  every  narrow  stair  is  known  and  loved; 
Each  nook  and  cranny  is  our  very  own; 
The  dear,  old,  sleepy  place  is  full  of  spells 
For  us,  by  right  of  long  inheritance. 
The  building  simply  bodies  forth  a  thought 
Peculiarly  inherent  to  the  race. 
And  we,  descendants  of  that  elder  time, 
Have  learnt  to  love  the  very  form  in  which 
The  thought  has  been  embodied  to  our  years. 
And  here  we  feel  that  we  are  not  alone, 
We  too  are  one  with  our  own  richest  past; 
And  here  that  veiled,  but  ever  smouldering  fire 
Of  race,  which  rarely  seen  yet  never  dies, 
Springs  up  afresh  and  warms  us  with  its  heat. 


122  THE   BOSTON   ATHEN^UM 

And  must  they  take  away  this  treasure  house, 

To  us  so  full  of  thoughts  and  memories; 

To  all  the  world  beside  a  dismal  place 

Lacking  in  all  this  modern  age  requires 

To  tempt  along  the  unfamiliar  paths 

And  leafy  lanes  of  old  time  literatures? 

It  takes  some  time  for  moss  and  vines  to  grow 

And  warmly  cover  gaunt  and  chill  stone  walls 

Of  stately  buildings  from  the  cold  North  Wind. 

The  lichen  of  affection  takes  as  long, 

Or  longer,  ere  it  lovingly  enfolds 

A  place  which  since  without  it  were  bereft, 

All  stript  and  bare,  shorn  of  its  chiefest  grace. 

For  what  to  us  were  halls  and  corridors 

However  large  and  fitting,  if  we  part 

With  this  which  is  our  birthright;  if  we  lose 

A  sentiment  profound,  unsoundable, 

Which  Time's  slow  ripening  alone  can  make, 

And  man's  blind  foolishness  so  quickly  mar. 


VERSES  FOR  CHILDREN 


VERSES  FOR   CHILDREN  125 


SEA  SHELL 

SEA  Shell,  Sea  Shell, 

Sing  me  a  song,  O  Please! 
A  song  of  ships,  and  sailor  men, 

And  parrots,  and  tropical  trees, 

Of  islands  lost  in  the  Spanish  Main 
Which  no  man  ever  may  find  again, 
Of  fishes  and  corals  under  the  waves, 
And  seahorses  stabled  in  great  green  caves. 

Sea  Shell,  Sea  Shell, 

Sing  of  the  things  you  know  so  well. 


126  VERSES   FOB   CHILDREN 


FRINGED  GENTIANS 

NEAR  where  I  live  there  is  a  lake 
As  blue  as  blue  can  be,  winds  make 
It  dance  as  they  go  blowing  by. 
I  think  it  curtseys  to  the  sky. 

It's  just  a  lake  of  lovely  flowers 
And  my  Mamma  says  they  are  ours; 
But  they  are  not  like  those  we  grow 
To  be  our  very  own,  you  know. 

We  have  a  splendid  garden,  there 
Are  lots  of  flowers  everywhere; 
Roses,  and  pinks,  and  four  o'clocks 
And  hollyhocks,  and  evening  stocks. 


VERSES    FOR    CHILDREN  127 

Mamma  lets  us  pick  them,  but  never 
Must  we  pick  any  gentians  —  ever! 
For  if  we  carried  them  away 
They'd  die  of  homesickness  that  day. 


128  VERSES    FOB    CHILDREN 

THE  PAINTED  CEILING 

MY  Grandpapa  lives  in  a  wonderful  house 
With  a  great  many  windows  and  doors, 

There  are  stairs  that  go  up,  and  stairs  that  go  down, 
And  such  beautiful,  slippery  floors. 

But  of  all  of  the  rooms,  even  mother's  and  mine, 
And  the  bookroom,  and  parlour  and  all, 

I  like  the  green  dining-room  so  much  the  best 
Because  of  its  ceiling  and  wall. 

Right  over  your  head  is  a  funny  round  hole 
With  apples  and  pears  falling  through; 

There's  a  big  bunch  of  grapes  all  purply  and  sweet, 
And  melons  and  pineapples  too. 

They  tumble  and  tumble,  but  never  come  down 
Though  I've  stood  underneath  a  long  while 

With  my  mouth  open  wide,  for  I  always  have  hoped 
Just  a  cherry  would  drop  from  the  pile. 


VERSES    FOE   CHILDREN  129 

No  matter  how  early  I  run  there  to  look 

It  has  always  begun  to  fall  through; 
And  one  night  when  at  bedtime  I  crept  in  to  see, 

It  was  falling  by  candle-light  too. 

I  am  sure  they  are  magical  fruits,  and  each  one 
Makes  you  hear  things,  or  see  things,  or  go 

Forever  invisible;  but  it's  no  use, 
And  of  course  I  shall  just  never  know. 

For  the  ladder's  too  heavy  to  lift,  and  the  chains 

Are  not  nearly  so  tall  as  I  need. 
I've  given  up  hope,  and  I  feel  I  shall  die 

Without  having  accomplished  the  deed. 

It's  a  little  bit  sad,  when  you  seem  very  near 
To  adventures  and  things  of  that  sort, 

Which  nearly  begin,  and  then  don't;  and  you  know 
It  is  only  because  you  are  short. 


130  VERSES   FOR   CHILDREN 


THE  CRESCENT  MOON 

SLIPPING  softly  through  the  sky 
Little  horned,  happy  moon, 

Can  you  hear  me  up  so  high? 
Will  you  come  down  soon? 

On  my  nursery  window-sill 

Will  you  stay  your  steady  flight? 

And  then  float  away  with  me 
Through  the  summer  night? 

Brushing  over  tops  of  trees, 

Playing  hide  and  seek  with  stars, 

Peeping  up  through  shiny  clouds 
At  Jupiter  or  Mars. 


VERSES    FOB   CHILDREN  131 

I  shall  fill  my  lap  with  roses 

Gathered  in  the  milky  way, 
All  to  carry  home  to  mother. 

Oh!  what  will  she  say! 

Little  rocking,  sailing  moon, 
Do  you  hear  me  shout  —  Ahoy!     , 

•    ;     -.--—  *    v 

Just  a- little  nearer,  moon, 
To  please  a  little  boy. 


132  VEKSES   FOB   CHILDREN 


CLIMBING 

HIGH  up  in  the  apple  tree  climbing  I  go, 
With  the  sky  above  me,  the  earth  below. 
Each  branch  is  the  step  of  a  wonderful  stair 
Which  leads  to  the  town  I  see  shining  up  there. 

Climbing,  climbing,  higher  and  higher, 
The  branches  blow  and  I  see  a  spire, 
The  gleam  of  a  turret,  the  glint  of  a  dome, 
All  sparkling  and  bright,  like  white  sea  foam. 

On  and  on,  from  bough  to  bough, 

The  leaves  are  thick,  but  I  push  my  way  through ; 

Before,  I  have  always  had  to  stop, 

But  to-day  I  am  sure  I  shall  reach  the  top. 


VEBSES    FOB   CHILDREN  133 

Today  to  the  end  of  the  marvelous  stair, 
Where  those  glittering  pinacles  flash  in  the  air! 
Climbing,  climbing,  higher  I  go, 
With  the  sky  close  above  me,  the  earth  far  below. 


134  VEHSES   FOB   CHILDREN 


THE  TROUT 

NAUGHTY  little  speckled  trout, 
Can't  I  coax  you  to  come  out? 
Is  it  such  great  fun  to  play 
In  the  water  every  day? 

Do  you  pull  the  Naiads'  hair 
Hiding  in  the  lilies  there? 
Do  you  hunt  for  fishes'  eggs, 
Or  watch  tadpoles  grow  their  legs? 

Do  the  little  trouts  have  school 
In  some  deep  sun-glinted  pool, 
And  in  recess  play  at  tag 
Round  that  bed  of  purple  flag? 


VERSES   FOR   CHILDREN  135 

I  have  tried  so  hard  to  catch  you, 
Hours  and  hours  I've  sat  to  watch  you; 
But  you  never  will  come  out, 
Naughty  little  speckled  trout! 


136  VERSES   FOR   CHILDREN 

WIND 

HE  shouts  in  the  sails  of  the  ships  at  sea, 
He  steals  the  down  from  the  honeybee, 
He  makes  the  forest  trees  rustle  and  sing, 
He  twirls  my  kite  till  it  breaks  its  string. 
Laughing,  dancing,  sunny  wind, 
Whistling,  howling,  rainy  wind, 
North,  South,  East  and  West, 
Each  is  the  wind  I  like  the  best. 

He  calls  up  the  fog  and  hides  the  hills, 
He  whirls  the  wings  of  the  great  windmills, 
The  weathercocks  love  him  and  turn  to  discover 
His  whereabouts  —  but  he's  gone,  the  rover! 
Laughing,  dancing,  sunny  wind, 
Whistling,  howling,  rainy  wind, 
North,  South,  East  and  West, 
Each  is  the  wind  I  like  the  best. 


VERSES   FOR    CHILDREN  137 

The  pine  trees  toss  him  their  cones  with  glee, 
The  flowers  bend  low  in  courtesy, 
Each  wave  flings  up  a  shower  of  pearls, 
The  flag  in  front  of  the  school  unfurls. 

Laughing,  dancing,  sunny  wind, 

Whistling,  howling,  rainy  wind, 

North,  South,  East  and  West, 

Each  is  the  wind  I  like  the  best. 


138  VERSES   FOR   CHILDREN 


THE  PLEIADES 

BY  day  you  cannot  see  the  sky 
For  it  is  up  so  very  high. 
You  look  and  look,  but  it 's  so  blue 
That  you  can  never  see  right  through. 

But  when  night  comes  it  is  quite  plain, 
And  all  the  stars  are  there  again. 
They  seem  just  like  old  friends  to  me, 
I've  known  them  all  my  life  you  see. 

There  is  the  dipper  first,  and  there 
Is  Cassiopeia  in  her  chair, 
Orion's  belt,  the  Milky  Way, 
And  lots  I  know  but  cannot  say. 


VERSES    FOB   CHILDREN  139 

One  group  looks  like  a  swarm  of  bees, 
Papa  says  they're  the  Pleiades; 
But  I  think  they  must  be  the  toy 
Of  some  nice  little  angel  boy. 

Perhaps  his  jackstones  which  to-day 
He  has  forgot  to  put  away, 
And  left  them  lying  on  the  sky 
Where  he  will  find  them  bye  and  bye. 

I  wish  he'd  come  and  play  with  me. 
We'd  have  such  fun,  for  it  would  be 
A  most  unusual  thing  for  boys 
To  feel  that  they  had  stars  for  toys! 


THE  END 


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